


Soft Sew

by hungryhippo_11



Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Real Person Fiction
Genre: F/M, Hand Jobs, M/M, POV First Person, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Suit Porn, Workplace Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-18
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2018-05-14 18:06:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5753119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hungryhippo_11/pseuds/hungryhippo_11
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You job is helping Martin out with a suit fitting. It's very hard work ;)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soft Sew

**Author's Note:**

> The title "Soft sew" is a tailoring term which apparently means an easily worked cloth ([source](http://www.savilerowbespoke.com/about-us/tailoring-terms/)). 
> 
> Fic inspired by this [image](http://40.media.tumblr.com/6d8d301ee03bfcae131d21085d4c646d/tumblr_np8108ss8j1qcsitmo6_500.jpg). Also musical muse credit to Bowie's "Moonage Daydream" <3

Some days you'd earn a bit of extra money working at your uncle's tailoring business, helping out with suit fittings and odd jobs here and there. It never occurred to you how intimate the process was, having to pin and fit fabric to mostly middle aged men's bodies. Suffice to say, you found it a little awkward at first, but soon you got accustomed to binding measuring tape around the fleshy expanse of beer bellies and brushing at collarbones to fold back stray shirt collars. After all, you were fulfilling an essential duty to get the job done, not wanting to cop a feel.

Except for this one customer. Martin was his name. Even among your uncle's relatively sensitive clientele, he was a fair handful, very prickly and particular about what he was after. Some of the guys would call him that heady old-school term, a 'tab', whine and talk crap about him--you wouldn't have a bar of it. And for that you'd cop all manner of shit, but they knew not to push too hard. Martin was a regular and you had an easy way with him, which meant plenty of coin for everyone concerned. Your uncle especially was pretty impressed, being the only other person he would be prepared to deal with before you joined the business.

There was just one teeny, tiny problem. You were attracted to him. Well, downright smitten would be a better way of putting it. So far you'd been able to keep your cool and hold yourself together. Maintain a polite, professional facade. This afternoon was meant to be no different.

For private fittings you'd always have to make sure the blinds were down, and the sign is flipped over to CLOSED on the door. On the desk nearby were two take-away coffee cups, the medium one, a latte for you, and a small one a macchiato, for him. 

"By the way, thanks for the tip about that local around the corner--their coffee is excellent."

"You can thank my friend from Melbourne. She's as particular about her coffee as you are about your suits."

He chuckles, reaching over briefly to grab another quick gulp of coffee. "I'll bet she is. Between them and the Kiwis that's how we finally got acquainted with the proper stuff. And thank God for that."

"Indeed." In the mirror, you stand slightly to one side, behind his back, smoothing out the shoulders of his new navy blue suit jacket. Close enough to bask in the heat from his body. Your palms linger on those shoulders. Martin barely notices. "So, what do you think?"

He scrutinises himself keenly, following your hands as they round his sides, the upper reaches of his ribcage. Softly, slowly trail down his body. The single-breasted jacket crafts his slim physique, nipping in at the waist ever-so-gently. It then flares subtly to skirt the tail of his hips, the hem ending where the trunks of his legs begin. The gold button sits in just the right spot at his belly button, granting his small torso length and shape. He beams his approval. "It's perfect."

You're smiling with him. Still holding his hips. "What about the trousers?"

"The cut feels great, yeah. I could live in these all day." He hooks his thumbs into the waistband at the centre of his stomach, which gives just enough for him to draw his hands along the band in opposite directions. Steadily feeling for girth, measuring the gap between fabric and flesh. He inhales, and shuts his eyes, a quiet moment of bliss. It's not-too-snug, yet flush with his torso--exactly how he wants it to be. You flush with more than a bit of pride at that. His hands brush over yours at his hips. 

"Now, would you help undo me?"

You peer up, at actual him this time. Trying to read the tone of his question, those words that didn't quite feel real coming out of his mouth. Over his shoulder, he catches your gaze, holds it for a moment. At a certain point, you're thinking, he'll reveal his joke. Cut you up with one of his little sarcastic remarks, delivered with that trademark mischievous twinkle in his eye. Then you'd both crack up laughing, and move along with the business at hand. But Martin doesn't say a word. 

Warmth pores over your hands, taken hold by his. Inviting you towards his centre. "If you want me to stop..."

"No, don't," you urge. Fine cotton skims across your fingertips, towards the trouser button. He guides you to unfasten it. Then to metal. His fly. You smile. "I like that you chose lunchtime."

"Well, I guess it is about meeting our appetites, in a way." In his grasp you can feel his hands tremble a little as he clears his throat, inhales a deep breath. Like he was finally beginning to fully conceive what that actually meant, picture it in his mind. "At first I wasn't sure I should even do this. I didn't think I'd be your type, really."

"My type?"

Martin gazes at your reflection, cracking into a brittle, sheepish grin. His eyes suddenly bright, features smooth, youthful. So beautiful you find yourself swallowing. Unable to compute. "Younger, taller, handsomer. Everything I'm not."

The small, sharp buzz is like a jolt, and he lets out a gasp. Peering at his groin, he's struck by the sight of his zipper sliding down, splitting the panels of fabric. Between the loosened flaps of his trousers, his bulge tents through grey boxers. Instantly you lick your lips, fingertips twitching, keen. Right there, that was what you wanted.

"In other words, the type who'd jizz themselves within 10 seconds of me laying a hand on them. No, thanks."

He starts to laugh, its lowly rumble grounding you, familiar, comfortable. Some you worked with called your back and forth with him 'flirty'--you'd merely described it as 'jovial', playing down the nature of your banter. 

"Well, there's no danger of that happening," and he glances over his shoulder again, to make sure you see his face while he speaks, "I can assure you."

Probably because just like him, you'd never really held out hope either. Yet there he was, staring at you, needy, aching for your touch. Here you were, hurriedly rifling at the opening of his trousers, groping for his cock through the fabric. Your head finding his, sideburns tickling your ear. 

"Argggggggggghhhhh....nggggggggggghhhhh...my God," he cries, grinding into your hand. You're stroking him, kneading at his arousal with the meat of your palm. Soon enough he's fumbling for you to strip him down further, your hands pulled over to his waistband. You need to feel him too, rubbing against his cheek, jawline cleanly-shaven, soft. Martin tilts, rolls his head as he has you nudge his boxers down, letting his cock pop out. It was as thick and glorious as you'd imagined, underneath all those elaborate layers, with a bulbous red head that demanded it be sucked off, immediately. You couldn't take your eyes off it.

"Fuck me." 

"Maybe later," he drawls, lifting your hand up to his face, and licks the centre of your palm. Those lips small, nearly as red as his cock, parted with a slippery tongue, wet, warm. You can't help imagining him all over your body, that tongue laving its way across your flesh, hungry, wanting.

That thought alone clings you to him even harder, your own arousal stirring in the pit of your stomach, thrumming at your fingertips, your lips, your tongue. A little inward turn, and you're deep in the crook of his neck, licking a moist trail up to his ear. 

Head lulling back, he closes his eyes. Exposing his throat. "Fuck, do NOT stop..." 

Your hand is back at his crotch, rounding the underside of his shaft. As you curl and fan your fingers, caressing him, the tips of your nails heeding his fine veiny ridges, his back arches, sharp, against you. You can feel his ass grind into you the deeper you delve, beyond his balls to the bed of his perineum. The pads of your fingers smooth him, skin delicate, tender there. 

"Mmmm, you like that, don't you?" You approach the rim of his asshole, circling over the puckered flesh. 

"Being tortured?" You can practically hear him grimace as your fingertips search his opening. "I love it."

If the circumstances were different, you know he'd be up for all of it, anything you could throw at him. That you can look forward to. You take his earlobe, nibbling playfully at the nub of flesh, cupping gently for his balls before you proceed to wrap your hand around his cock, grasping his length. How full it would feel inside you. The force of it thrusting as he fucks you. That foreskin slides so smoothly, over his glans, back and forth, back and forth, a steady rhythm. 

"Mmmmmmmmmm, that's sooooo good," he growls, legs beginning to wobble a little, "that's it, yeah...just like that."

Every part of him you can feel clench, his grip on you tightening. Even underneath his shirt, where he leads your touch to swarm over him, his belly. Drift along the dip in his sternum to spread, span your fingers across his chest. 

The throbbing you feel in your own groin has you rutting against his ass, itching for more. But not today. Today is for him. Your tongue lingers at the corner of your mouth, running your thumb along his frenulum, and you realise it then, how close you are to snapping him. Those striking blue eyes glazed over, hazy and unfocused. His shirttails askew, trousers down around his ankles. A blushing, gorgeous mess of a man, mouth hanging open, groaning for you. Your lips meet him there gently, feeling for the seam of his mouth. Then the ridges of this teeth. They click against each other, where his tongue flickers, coaxing for yours. Wet heat, twirling your tongue round, bottom lip fighting for traction, to suck on him hard. 

Pre-come beads at his tip, cool at your fingertips. You slow your movements, smothering that pre-come along his shaft. 

"I'm coming..."

"I know." You smile into his kiss, resuming your stroke, faster this time, squeezing him harder. It's so quiet you both can hear the tiny squelching noises alongside your breaths. At least briefly.

His hips start to buck into your hand, muttering against your mouth. “Oh my...fuck...”

Thankfully your other hand still rests at his chest, bracing him. You can feel his heart racing. He caresses your arm. Holds you tight there. Grips your hand on his slickened hard-on. Only he's no longer the one guiding you. 

“Fuck...fuck...OH FUCK!!” 

Almost crumpling forward, he orgasms, thrusting hard into your palm. You struggle to contain him, but you’re able to keep him from falling over. Gradually, your breaths settle. Bodies become still, his cock softening in your clutches. Upon letting it go, you inspect your hand. Come drips, sticky on your palm. Threading fine white streams when you splay your fingers apart. 

On his chest, your other hand lingers, trailing down his torso, out from under his shirt. For a few moments you sweep at the creases in the fabric, neaten up his shirttails. You then take a step back towards the desk, searching for some scrap fabric somewhere to wipe yourself on. Down at your trousers, you realise the dampness at your groin. A pretty prominent dark patch between your legs. You'll have to go change, and fast. The grandfather clock over on the wall ticks soundly. It's nearly the end of lunchtime.

At the mirror, Martin steadies himself, fingers pincering hold of his lapels carefully to straighten out his suit jacket. A few dotted patches of come gleam on the back of his left hand. 

The clock starts chiming, once, twice. The door squeaks open, triggering the bell to ring above. Both of you swing your heads around to find a large, burly, well-suited gentleman swaggering into the shop like he owns the place. That'd be because he DOES own the place. Within a few moments of surveying the scene before him, his face flushes red, glaring at you in mortified horror. One of his most loyal and high-profile customers stands between the two of you, half-naked, looking quite embarrassed for himself. 

Meanwhile, you give the gentleman a little wave, and flash a smile. You’re in such deep shit right now. “Hi, Uncle. About Mr Freeman's fitting...”

But damn, it was worth it.


End file.
